I am a sniper
taking out targets one at a time
shifting my scope until a cross on your forehead says fire
dangerous notions
from a man filled with potions
that send out hoardes intent on the kill
spells of a few sentences
muttered in a poem
and sent out electronically
to the four corners of the earth
metaphors of a struggle more mundane than the poetry can hold
become intellectual bombs set off in the minds
drugging words that create ephiphanies
stir enough passion to brand the words unforgettable
My mock violence tries to come to grips with the real stuff
commenting with enough laughter
to make the horror/the horror attractive enough
to create disgust
change
a need for justice
stronger than any of your fears
a sloughing off of everything you know
for something new
a conversion to your own private planet
where you play the little king
my serial killer character is a mind game that I play with my shadow side
bringing out my inner beast enough to know its darkest reactions
to explore this creature that I find myself inside of
this man
that I am told is too many different
things to believe everybody
I have no reason to kill and never want anyone to kill anyone over anything
they will and I cannot stop the violence so I am left commenting from afar
trying to relate to the problem
to keep it in my mind
long enough to make it alive as a story
I have felt the blood thirst
No human alive has not felt the desire to kill for a fleeting, insane second
the desire and the act are a world apart
real serial killers would none of my qualms
they would have a need as strong as sex and hunger to kill
everything is a porno novel in their minds
I have A fascination
for high drama lives
the farthest reaches
of human oddness
on the page
not in real life
I am ressurecting Johnny Pain
after a few years writing about my new Jesus mostly
trying to make this prose voyage
of mine filled with various characters
the Jungian archetypes that ramble around in the dark pits of our mind
come out to play on the page
the poems of death and mayhem
play on movie screens in my mind
flashes of explosions
staccato screams s of machine guns
cries of the dead
and dying
violence was around long before the comic prose of Johnny Pain
he is a creation of and in the media
birthed by the violence itself
the pure child of the horror --
free of all reservations about who he hurts
his idealogical utterances the mere excuses of a convicted criminal
a terrorist blowing up our mental suburbs
dragging the civilians into the fray
where the left and right play out their war games
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